


Be Your Raincoat

by pinehutch



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alcohol, As we all know, Crushes, Gen, I mean it's set in a pub, M/M, Martin has the world's biggest crush on Jon, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Season/Series 01, References to Arctic Monkeys, Sketches, affectionate office gossip, and relatively unhaunted twenty-somethings having drinks after work, it's not clear that the pining is mutual, not much happens but we do learn that martin is the kissy kind of drinker, sadly there is no actual kissing, which is an existing tag because i guess 2013 happened to all of us
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23479480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinehutch/pseuds/pinehutch
Summary: It's a rainy night at the tail end of 2013, and Arctic Monkeys' latest record is everywhere - including at the pub where a young Martin Blackwood is hung up on his coworker from the Institute.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 31
Kudos: 144





	Be Your Raincoat

**Author's Note:**

> This is more of a sketch than anything - just a few moments over the course of an evening through what I'm hoping is Martin's POV. Also with thanks to Mia_Ugly, who I think nudged me into finally deciding to listen to TMA sometime last year and has welcomed me shouting about it ever since. <3 
> 
> (I'm sorry if the end notes contain homework.)

It’s the tail end of 2013, early December. “Do I Wanna Know?” is still inescapable, everyone who likes music and staying up too late and making eyes at their will-they-or-won’t-they  _ playing it on repeat _ while they’re watching the rain. Martin’s seen the new guy, Tim, walk out of the bar with his arm around a different person to the challenge of Alex Turner’s  _ have you got the guts? _ three times in the last two weeks, Sasha throwing him a half-ironic thumbs-up under the table as he and his latest leave.

Martin likes Tim well enough but hasn’t said yes to a drink, yet, not for just the two of them. He’s got his sights set impossibly high already, thanks, and he  _ knows _ he can’t be trusted one-on-one with Tim when there’s alcohol involved. Having a pretty serious youth has meant that he’s found out a bit later than most that he, Martin Blackwood, is the kissing kind of drunk.

Anyway, “Do I Wanna Know” isn’t even his favourite cut from the album. Which, like - he knows it’s a failure of his musical taste. He knows. But he’s a poet, has been since John Cooper Clarke showed up in the GCSE English curriculum and he put “I Wanna Be Yours” to memory after his mum had fallen asleep, trying to think of something funny to MSN to David from school, always quick with a laughing-face smiley and a cat meme.

Ten years later and the coolest band from his late adolescence puts out a record with that poem, of all of them, turned into a tipsily sincere little ballad? Obviously Martin’s absolutely gone for it. 

He’s at the pub tonight. It’s a Thursday, and Rosie from the Head’s office had dragged half the staff from Research and from Artefact Storage out to get some drinks in, some warmth and cheer on an otherwise miserable bastard of a day. The wind’s up and the rain is lashing the windows in a way that reminds everyone indoors that they’re safe and cosy.

Martin’s never sure how to be in these bigger groups, but it’s not bad, really. He’s a lot more comfortable here in their corner of the pub than in the bars Tim had been dragging them out to, and he’d rather take his time with a couple of pints than find himself clutching an empty (and expensive) glass of ice after nervously drinking a cocktail in ten minutes flat. Halfway through his second drink he feels himself relaxing, feels it all through his body as his shoulders spread back and he lets himself be a bit broader, a bit taller, and he tunes back into the conversation.The sense of ease won’t last, it never does, but he enjoys it while he can. 

Rosie’s not even trying to pretend she’s not chasing gossip tonight. Martin’s been watching her barter for everyone’s new and exciting since they sat down. It’s harmless, he supposes, and a bit fun to hear that Daniel who inherited Sasha’s applied testing job made up a file on an antique comb and now keeps finding five pound notes in his pockets. 

It’s better than the usual order of business for Artefacts, as Sasha points out. “Not  _ bloody  _ fair, all I ever got was a sense of creeping dread!” 

There’s a good laugh at that, and Rosie moves on to her next victim. 

Martin lets the ale and warm company run his mouth for him when she turns to him and asks “any _news_ from you, Martin?” with that intonation of hers that lets everyone know exactly what she means. She’s been overly interested in Martin’s love life ever since she caught him working on a poem in the cafe around the corner from the Institute and her mind leapt to _odes and sonnets, then?_

“There’s no one, Rosie, you know it’s either you or a confirmed bachelor’s life for me.” Two quick taps on the tiny rainbow flag pin on his shirt collar and a very bold-of-him wink, and then Rosie gives him a friendly swat and reminds him that it’s the 21st century Martin, and there’s loads of nice young men in London, surely. That trips him up - obviously he knows that, he’s not stupid or afraid to date, exactly - and the banter gets away from him, just like it always does. 

A minute after he’s gone quiet Sasha gives him a nudge from his right and checks in with him via eyebrows, as you do. He’s a bit embarrassed to not have had a comeback to Rosie but it’s not enough of a bother to stop him taking another sip from his glass and listening on.

It’s not long after that the music changes, Arctic Monkeys again because of course it is, and Martin sighs a bit (actually sighs, like the deeply embarrassing man he is) when his current favourite tune starts playing. It hits him all through his body, this one, a low heat and a bright warmth all at once. He’s been humming at work, thinking about “if you like your coffee hot” while he’s offering to make a tea for someone who isn’t  _ news _ but is goddamn  _ newsworthy _ . Christ, is he biting his lip at memories of fetching tea? Martin’s got it bad. 

He’d been at the Institute for a bit longer than Jonathan Sims, but Jon is the rising star in Research. He’s brilliant, focused, deadly serious, sharp as anything, nearly always overdressed. He’s not funny like Tim or steady as Sasha, but he’s got these hands and this  _ voice _ and the tiniest hints of grey in his dark hair and it looks  _ good _ . He’s almost as tall as Martin, but narrower, somewhere between lean and delicate. 

His mouth still goes dry thinking about the day he’d caught Jon stretching his arms out over his head at his desk, apparently no more immune to the late summer afternoon than anyone else. He’d had his jacket and tie off, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows but his waistcoat still on and buttoned, looking for all the world like a pin-up made bespoke for Martin’s daydreams. Jon had even smiled a bit, half guilty and half at-ease being caught anything less than perfectly composed. 

It hadn’t been a productive day for Martin, after that. 

The ale’s emptying a bit more quickly than he’d like while he drifts along with the music, imagining the feeling of being both needed and wanted, imagining what he could do to gain a repeat performance of that state of relaxed undress, that smile. The song’s still playing, just at the halfway point when the door opens and there’s Tim, grinning as usual, and oh god he’s got Jon with him, and is he really  _ laughing _ ?

A smirk, a bit of a grin, maybe even a sensible chuckle, sure, those were Jon Things. But  _ laughter  _ like this, open and vital and gorgeous? This is new, and oh if it hasn’t already crashed to the top of Martin’s favourites playlist.

Everything stops for a minute. Martin can’t think, can’t focus on the conversation, so he just looks: the tilt of Jon’s head, line of his jaw, glint off his hair. The skin of his throat looks younger than his face ( _ what would it feel like, to his fingers, to his mouth?).  _ The rich sound of Jon’s happiness, like - chocolate, or wine, or something really, really rich. He’s forgone a tie this evening, and the fragile, thumb-ready notch of his clavicle is just visible. His shoulders bob up and down once with a concluding chuckle and he breathes deep, looks around the room. 

It’s only then that Martin feels jealousy and inadequacy clench in his stomach. Of course it was Tim to make him laugh like that. 

And it’s just Martin’s luck that he’s caught staring, but it’s surely someone else’s that Jon takes that exact moment to meet his eyes and look back for one beat, two, three, angling his head to the side and curling that surprisingly soft mouth into a greeting, with a nod to Martin. 

To _ Martin! _

Then he’s up to order a drink, graceful hand absently leaning his umbrella under the bar where he’ll forget it immediately. Martin forgets not to stare at Jon’s long form for a moment longer, and then turns his eyes back to his glass as quickly as possible and hopes he was already flushed enough from the alcohol. 

It’s then that Tim pulls up a chair on the other side of Sasha, spins it backwards and sits with his legs spread around it. His voice is just naturally booming, so it’s hardly Martin’s fault that he overhears. 

“Sash,” says Tim, more than a bit wry, “I think I’ve just struck out!”

Sasha makes a hyperbolically sympathetic noise as Tim keeps going. “He laughed at me. I think he thought I was joking!” 

Something eases in Martin, and something else flares, and he’s draining his pint when someone sits down on his other side. 

“Do you mind, Martin? If I sit?” 

He’s frozen. Or possibly on fire? Momentarily unsure of the difference, anyway.

“Martin?” repeats Jon, his voice gone soft despite the noise around the table. “This seat’s free?” Simple as that, and then there he is, sat down beside him, a bit stiff but looking for all the world like someone who has sat down beside someone at the pub before. 

Martin cannot say the same of himself. “Oh - yeah, course Jon, yes. Please sit? Or, please - be welcome - to sit?” The longer he speaks, the less control he has over anything he’s saying. “I mean you’re already sitting. But sit down. Make yourself at home!” ( _ God _ , Blackwood, please just stop talking already.) Jon’s starting to look a bit spooked by his nervous, gigantic coworker, isn’t he? That’s definitely a smile of polite tolerance, nothing else, nothing friendly. (Please,  _ stop talking _ !) 

Martin faces forward and takes a drink from his empty glass. He puts it down, pretends surprise that it’s empty. Closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and another. When he composes himself he sees that Tim’s miming brokenhearted tears in Jon’s direction, and Jon’s just rolling his eyes and listening quietly to everyone else’s conversation. Despite his awkwardness, he really is fond of these strange people he works with, and he lets that ground him for a minute as he looks around the table, around the room, to the door where still more Institute employees were filtering in - gosh, Rosie was a marvel at getting people to come out, wasn’t she? - when his eyes stop at the bar. 

There’s the umbrella, shining and soaked. “Jon,” he says. “I think you’ve, uh, left your umbrella at the bar? D’you want me to fetch it for you maybe?” He sees Jon notice the umbrella, watches his mouth purse in a half of a frown, gets a bit dizzy at the way his bottom lip puckers just the tiniest bit when he’s trying to figure something out. 

“Why did I - never mind, doesn’t matter. I’ll get it, you’re all pressed in there between us.” And with that he’s up, and Martin can’t help but watch him move back through the crowded room. He’s shockingly, ordinarily  _ physical _ as he weaves between patrons and ducks down on one side to reach under the bar top and wrap long, lovely fingers around the umbrella handle. 

Martin is feeling really, really aware of what he gets like when he’s been drinking, just now. Maybe it’s time to start on water, instead. He presses the inside of his wrists to the empty pint glass, hoping that it’s just a little bit cooler than his body feels right now. 

When Jon sits back down Martin’s pretending to be fascinated with Rosie’s current round of gossip-gathering and he’s not expecting the voice from beside him. “Thank you, Martin. I’d have left it behind altogether, or had it lifted by someone. I’ll want this on the way back home, tonight.

“Also I, uh, took the liberty of ordering you another drink? You don’t have to take it, of course, but I thought it would be less awkward than crawling all over - than trying to navigate all of these people and their chairs and - and legs and everything.” 

It’s Martin’s turn to laugh. He’s not sure if Jon is trying to be funny - he’s not sure he’s ever really heard him joke - but he’s happy. Besides, he thinks Jon  _ might  _ be trying to be funny while thanking him for being helpful. So he laughs, short and nervous, because that feels good to think about, if kind of overwhelming. 

The song’s long over, but Martin feels its signature heat suffuse him from head to toe. He takes a drink from the full glass and licks a bit of foam off his lips. “Anytime, Jon. Just didn’t want you to go without.” 

**Author's Note:**

> <
> 
> ["I Wanna Be Yours," poem by John Cooper Clarke](http://johncooperclarke.com/poems/i-wanna-be-yours)
> 
> ["I Wanna Be Yours," version by Arctic Monkeys](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fJLQCf4mFP0)
> 
> (Also if you like jonmartin and songs, here is my idea of a jonmartin s1-4 soundtrack. ["Epiphany" (a jonmartin spotify playlist)](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1JBdxFaKzifq01ijHJw6Se?si=0LRoNCrARRKjF6Bi9AfyJA)


End file.
